Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Up East
We had the greatest trip to the USA - blue skies all the way, literally, metaphorically. I will have pictures soon.
The three elements of the journey complemented each other well. Busy Boston - its skyline is seen in splendour from out in the harbour, we took ferries and walked the bays and bridges; Quincy Market was a great place to sample a huge range of ethnic foods - I tried my first clam chowder here. In the old North End - the European part of old Boston, we jostled through Hanover Street's food market with its giant vegetables, seafood, halal meat, great blocks of cheese. Chinatown seemed run-down and sad in the daylight. On Sunday the subway, full of families, was friendly, crowds cheered boat races on the Charles River, joggers dodged cars, rough sleepers lay under the bridges.
The town of Cambridge, home of Harvard, buzzed on a hot Saturday morning - the campus pristine, bookshops and students teeming, a street musician played flamenco. Days passed in Boston's museums, ancient cemeteries and houses, skyscrapers, shops and parks. We both shed tears at the Holocaust Memorial with its six million numbers engraved on glass towers.
The city infrastructure is being regenerated, places reached often by fighting a dangerous path through giant roadworks. Nights found us watching a lively cafe society, hilly sidestreets, brownstones and gaslight. A glittering night city reflected in water, candles in restaurants, sirens, traffic and the drifiting smell of old houses. We walked early among the squirrels on Boston Common before going to our Italian cafe, Panificio, for breakfast. Finally, footsore and still fascinated, on the fourth day we found the bus to Hyannis.
From the prow of the huge ferry, over glistening sea we saw Nantucket rise. On the first spit of land, Brant lighthouse behind, a boy fished in the morning sun. The white church spire sat high on the hill above harboured yachts, cobbled streets, roses and hydrangeas, white picket fences and butterflies like small birds. A stroll to the old clapboard hotel where we found a four-poster, pretty rooms, friends made quickly, car shared. At the back of white sandy beaches golden rod ran wild among red poison ivy and rosa rugosa. Roses climbed over roofs of weathered grey wooden houses. Empty summer homes stood opulent, immaculate all over the island, used for only a few weeks a year.
Walking, walking miles, along narrow lanes closed by honeysuckle, pumpkins on porches, dozing cats. Siasconset village where the old seamen's houses have rooftop lookout galleries and white paths of crushed scallop shells. Hazy pink dawn on the sea, apricot sunset seen from from among the dunes of a distant beach. Wandering the late evening shops, choosing among the bustle of restaurants, smells of seafood and accordion music from the Irish pub. Then late night coffee from the stall by the harbour, sipped wandering along the boardwalks, moon on the sea. On the last night fog rose in the warm streets and the foghorn called all night out on Nantucket Sound. The little grey lady of the sea was seen at first hand. In the last shreds of mist next morning we watched that lovely longed-for place recede as the fast ferry kicked through the water to the mainland.
Then nine hours of Greyhound buses, up the Massachusetts Turnpike to edge-of-town stops, five bus changes. Students, old ladies, black folks and Hispanics, Chinese and Indian bound for all over the place, eating home-made sandwiches, waiting wearily under the neon. We passed the huge night-lit city of Albany, with good old buildings showing among towers, on to Saratoga Springs, Ken and Bill waiting in the dark with the big black Cadillac that swallowed our cases whole and swept us out to the countryside and their lovely homes.
We woke to mountain slopes burning with autumn colour, corn stubbled fields, pastureland and farms; brilliant blue sky and pure air. A week of walking through this magical landscape, seeing the colours develop, and finally fade a little. Visiting towns and villages, lazy pub lunches and dinners with friends, chat and laughter. On a farm close to the Grandma Moses homestead, a trotting horse and a surrey (with fringe) gave us a ride past the fields of alfalfa; a trip to the lovely old Vermont town of Bennington brought me to Robert Frost's grave where a red maple leaf (now pressed) fell to the stone as I stood there. At Stockbridge in his new museum, we felt the humanity of Norman Rockwell's original paintings quite intensely - sneered at by many as a populist, I rate him.
At Sunday church, where K & B play organ we met good people. Walking made us hungry; hot cider with cinnamon up in the mountains, Bill's fresh waffles and maple syrup for breakfast, hamburgers and beer, salmon for an elegant dinner and killer martinis and Manhattens most nights. Sometimes Bill played 'cocktail' piano. Pleasant in the morning to wander out to the kitchen to find Ken in his dressing gown laying the breakfast, muffins warming, Boston-accented news on the radio. All so sociable, warm - the essence of the American - wonderful hosts; so sad to say goodbye to them and their lovely lives, the wide fields, the morning mists and carpets of golden leaves.
One last night in Boston, behind a sensational wall of glass on the seventh floor above the Charles river, lying in the dark, reluctant to sleep with lights spread out below. Then with the wondrous blessing of British Airways, both flights unbelievably upgraded to first class, we snoozed across the Atlantic, legs stretched out, soothed by champagne, hot towels and new movies. Home to a beautiful autumn day, to piles of letters and piles of leaves.
We had the greatest trip to the USA - blue skies all the way, literally, metaphorically. I will have pictures soon.
The three elements of the journey complemented each other well. Busy Boston - its skyline is seen in splendour from out in the harbour, we took ferries and walked the bays and bridges; Quincy Market was a great place to sample a huge range of ethnic foods - I tried my first clam chowder here. In the old North End - the European part of old Boston, we jostled through Hanover Street's food market with its giant vegetables, seafood, halal meat, great blocks of cheese. Chinatown seemed run-down and sad in the daylight. On Sunday the subway, full of families, was friendly, crowds cheered boat races on the Charles River, joggers dodged cars, rough sleepers lay under the bridges.
The town of Cambridge, home of Harvard, buzzed on a hot Saturday morning - the campus pristine, bookshops and students teeming, a street musician played flamenco. Days passed in Boston's museums, ancient cemeteries and houses, skyscrapers, shops and parks. We both shed tears at the Holocaust Memorial with its six million numbers engraved on glass towers.
The city infrastructure is being regenerated, places reached often by fighting a dangerous path through giant roadworks. Nights found us watching a lively cafe society, hilly sidestreets, brownstones and gaslight. A glittering night city reflected in water, candles in restaurants, sirens, traffic and the drifiting smell of old houses. We walked early among the squirrels on Boston Common before going to our Italian cafe, Panificio, for breakfast. Finally, footsore and still fascinated, on the fourth day we found the bus to Hyannis.
From the prow of the huge ferry, over glistening sea we saw Nantucket rise. On the first spit of land, Brant lighthouse behind, a boy fished in the morning sun. The white church spire sat high on the hill above harboured yachts, cobbled streets, roses and hydrangeas, white picket fences and butterflies like small birds. A stroll to the old clapboard hotel where we found a four-poster, pretty rooms, friends made quickly, car shared. At the back of white sandy beaches golden rod ran wild among red poison ivy and rosa rugosa. Roses climbed over roofs of weathered grey wooden houses. Empty summer homes stood opulent, immaculate all over the island, used for only a few weeks a year.
Walking, walking miles, along narrow lanes closed by honeysuckle, pumpkins on porches, dozing cats. Siasconset village where the old seamen's houses have rooftop lookout galleries and white paths of crushed scallop shells. Hazy pink dawn on the sea, apricot sunset seen from from among the dunes of a distant beach. Wandering the late evening shops, choosing among the bustle of restaurants, smells of seafood and accordion music from the Irish pub. Then late night coffee from the stall by the harbour, sipped wandering along the boardwalks, moon on the sea. On the last night fog rose in the warm streets and the foghorn called all night out on Nantucket Sound. The little grey lady of the sea was seen at first hand. In the last shreds of mist next morning we watched that lovely longed-for place recede as the fast ferry kicked through the water to the mainland.
Then nine hours of Greyhound buses, up the Massachusetts Turnpike to edge-of-town stops, five bus changes. Students, old ladies, black folks and Hispanics, Chinese and Indian bound for all over the place, eating home-made sandwiches, waiting wearily under the neon. We passed the huge night-lit city of Albany, with good old buildings showing among towers, on to Saratoga Springs, Ken and Bill waiting in the dark with the big black Cadillac that swallowed our cases whole and swept us out to the countryside and their lovely homes.
We woke to mountain slopes burning with autumn colour, corn stubbled fields, pastureland and farms; brilliant blue sky and pure air. A week of walking through this magical landscape, seeing the colours develop, and finally fade a little. Visiting towns and villages, lazy pub lunches and dinners with friends, chat and laughter. On a farm close to the Grandma Moses homestead, a trotting horse and a surrey (with fringe) gave us a ride past the fields of alfalfa; a trip to the lovely old Vermont town of Bennington brought me to Robert Frost's grave where a red maple leaf (now pressed) fell to the stone as I stood there. At Stockbridge in his new museum, we felt the humanity of Norman Rockwell's original paintings quite intensely - sneered at by many as a populist, I rate him.
At Sunday church, where K & B play organ we met good people. Walking made us hungry; hot cider with cinnamon up in the mountains, Bill's fresh waffles and maple syrup for breakfast, hamburgers and beer, salmon for an elegant dinner and killer martinis and Manhattens most nights. Sometimes Bill played 'cocktail' piano. Pleasant in the morning to wander out to the kitchen to find Ken in his dressing gown laying the breakfast, muffins warming, Boston-accented news on the radio. All so sociable, warm - the essence of the American - wonderful hosts; so sad to say goodbye to them and their lovely lives, the wide fields, the morning mists and carpets of golden leaves.
One last night in Boston, behind a sensational wall of glass on the seventh floor above the Charles river, lying in the dark, reluctant to sleep with lights spread out below. Then with the wondrous blessing of British Airways, both flights unbelievably upgraded to first class, we snoozed across the Atlantic, legs stretched out, soothed by champagne, hot towels and new movies. Home to a beautiful autumn day, to piles of letters and piles of leaves.
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Wednesday, October 01, 2003
Off
See you all in three weeks. I keep checking that I have all the necessary documents about my person - tickets, passport, currency. Reminds me of my old school friend's father who used to outrage us by patting himself variously before going out and saying "Spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch." 'Bye for now.
See you all in three weeks. I keep checking that I have all the necessary documents about my person - tickets, passport, currency. Reminds me of my old school friend's father who used to outrage us by patting himself variously before going out and saying "Spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch." 'Bye for now.